The Silence of the Answer
by ShinigamiForever
Summary: In which Draco kills Harry by shoving a hand through the heart and then begins to compulsively wash his hands. A rather dark Draco/Harry production. Rated for language.


The Silence of the Answer  
  
By: ShinigamiForever  
  
  
  
  
  
Warnings: Dark angsty stuff. No, really. A lot of weird stuff happens. Slash, Draco/Harry, although it's more violent than pretty. And really strange writing style. As Perfect-Dark01 commented, "What the fuck?!"  
  
Summary: In which Draco kills Harry by shoving a hand through the heart and then begins to compulsively wash his hands. A rather dark Draco/Harry production.  
  
A/N: What possessed me to write this? Actually, a paper cut. I was washing my hands in the sink and I noticed a paper cut which the soap seemed to continually aggravate. So I decided hey, fic idea. BTW, for anybody interested, the method of killing is borrowed from my short-lived obsession with X/1999.  
  
And kudos to rhoddlet who wrote Empire of Light. It's a beautifully terrifying fic that I recommend reading because it's more worth your time, but it's NC-17 and slash with Snape/Draco pairings and Snape/Lucius pairings and a touch of James/Lucius, so watch it, okay?  
  
===  
  
They say death hurts no more than a paper cut.  
  
You suppose they have never died. But that's true, isn't it, they can't have died if they told you and you have not died, which is just as obvious, and if neither one of you have died, how do you know that death hurts no more than a paper cut? You don't.  
  
Ah, then, truth hurts in a paper cut kind of way. Truth is a little death each time you utter it. If that makes any sense. Which it doesn't, but you ignore that out of sheer annoyance and fear. You are afraid of truth. Stupid and nonsensical, but you are absolutely frightened of what the truth about anything is.  
  
For example: Hogwarts. Sixth year. You're an insomniac by nature, never getting enough sleep. Back when you were a child, your father used to give you sleeping spells to make you go to sleep, dreamless oblivions that you never believed to be sleep, an empty massive void. What dreams you may have had when the magic that flowed out of his veins did not drown you. But you would never know. You have always been an insomniac. Even when asleep.  
  
Which is exactly why on that particular night you found yourself ghosting the hallways of some unknown classroom (you were lost, you realized that later) and stumbling upon the other hallway-ghosting-nighttime-strolling insomniac of the school. None other than the famous Harry Potter that you would like to strangle with your bare hands and spread his blood all over the Astronomy tower for the Hogwarts students to find the next morning. So take that, Mr. Harry Potter.  
  
And then the usual "Hey Mr. Harry Potter I hate you/ Hey Mr. Draco Malfoy I hate you too" crap, followed up by "Hey Mr. I-have-a-biological-disaster- for-a-family I hate you/ Hey Mr. I-have-a-pedophile-for-a-father I hate you too" crap, then some "Hey Mr. I-suck-up-to-Mudblood-lovers I hate you/ Hey Mr. I-eat-babies-just-because-they're-not-purebloods I hate you too" shit. And then, the fighting.  
  
Except this time (although it may be largely due to the immense amount of alcohol you consumed because it was Pansy's birthday) it was different. Different in a nighttime kind of way, full of intoxication (more alcohol references Draco darling?) and buttered toffee. Buttered toffee? But sure, you think, that works. Blood tinted with buttered toffee and bruises the color of swollen flower petals. All over his face.  
  
So that was when you lowered your head to taste his blood mixed with your blood from the punch he threw to your jaw. You pressed your mouth against him and began to fully discover the meaning of kiss- to find in your saliva the essence of your prey, to completely be able to feel heartbeat and sloshing veins and skin beneath you. And of course Harry thought it was a battle tactic, and of course he responded by kicking you, and of course you both ran like bats out of hell to go back to your common room, you with a broken lip, bruised cheek, and hurt ribs, and him with a bleeding nose, cut on the forehead, and several bruises all over his wrists and neck.  
  
And of course, in the morning, both of you pretended it never happened.  
  
Another example: Hogwarts. Seventh year. When all houses decided to let loose on the last Hogsmeade trip and visited a dance club, whiling the night away with alcohol that was no doubt provided by Seamus (the mastermind behind the idea) and droning hypnotizing techno music. You of course escaped the dance only to be confronted by a not quite settled Harry Potter who slammed you against the wall and asked you what you were doing. You answered with your usual sarcasm and he lashed out, and within moments both of you found yourself lip to lip with clothes in disarray.  
  
And afterwards you went into the restroom (ignoring the faint moans coming from the stalls), washed your hands, joined the party on the dance floor, and drank 16 shots of tequila. It tasted horrible and you fell over unconscious after the last one and the next day you had a raging headache, but hey, at least it drowned the memory of the bruises on your hip and the small patch of skin behind one ear where Harry's teeth marks were still visible.  
  
So yes, you are afraid of truth, and you are afraid of what truth could mean, and that is why you do not acknowledge that you loved him even though you drew marks down his back in loving anticipation, even though you whispered against his skin that he was yours alone, even though apples still remind you of his shampoo, even though, even though. Simplicity is the truth to every story. You know the reasons, you know the truth, but you are afraid of it.  
  
You were kissing him when you killed him.  
  
How sad, and romantic, and melodramatic, but for you it was horror. You had your lips pressed against his, crushing him, while your left hand came up to slam with the full force of a raging tidal wave into his chest, running through the skin, through the flesh, through the blood, out to the other side, where it appeared, soaked in the crimson of life. And you could taste the blood on his lips, the gurgling sound he made, even though he tasted of buttered toffee and lemons and strawberry ice. With his arms wrapped around you too.  
  
You killed him.  
  
There is a truth you cannot refute. His blood still stains your sleeve, crowding against the black twining thread of the fabric and creating deathly patterns of its own. Symphonies upon symphonies of red and burgundy and deep deep maroon, like the symbolized sea of blood. On his left sleeve. The blood dried under his fingernails, streaked like paint on his nails, like a morbid nail polish. The blood caked against the wrinkles in your skin, a smell of iron and salt sea. The bits of blood like liquid garnets on your face.  
  
You killed him.  
  
Maybe if you keep repeating that to yourself the words will just become syllables and more phrases, not really words, just passing out of existence like some b-rated movie that you forget in the blink of an eye. Foolish wishing, but maybe it will. So you keep saying it to yourself, and the truth becomes even more overwhelming, and each time stark reality disappears into a hysterical state of dream-like trance, with nothing but the pendulum of the words 'you killed him.'  
  
Yes, you did.  
  
You shoved a hand through his heart while he was kissing you, or you were kissing him. Whatever. There was a kiss. Who cares who was kissing whom. There was a kiss and he laid his chest bare against your own and you placed your hand against his chest and shoved. He made no sound against your lips. You could have sworn he smiled, his eyes squeezed shut, taking the leaf- green emerald spring dawn away from you.  
  
How dare he.  
  
But you killed him, and you have his blood stained on your hands.  
  
You had asked your father- no, Lucius- why the Malfoys killed by forcing a hand through the heart. He had smiled, his lips folding over pointed canine teeth that were white and perfect, and he had given his head a shake, sending a cascade of moonlight into your eyes and then he smiled again, thin pale pink lips stretched over paler still white teeth.  
  
And so he had said, "If your prey is willing to bare his heart to you, then you have all the right to take it away from him." And smiled again, thin lips white teeth gray eyes smooth skin.  
  
Ah.  
  
Now is that really so wrong? As Malfoys always get and keep what they aim for. But then he had stopped smiling, and you had watched him, him not smiling, his lips pursed together into a tight line and he had opened his mouth, but nothing came out. No, air came out. Blood tinted air.  
  
Like the way you used to taste blood after Harry punched you.  
  
Yes, and we are back to the blood, Draco darling. Blood, all over your sleeve and your skin and your fingers and your wrinkles and your hand. Your hand.  
  
With it pushed through his heart and his lips against yours. Death. Blood. Death. Blood.  
  
Stop thinking about it, Draco, you say to yourself. Put your hands under the sink and wash them, soap after layer of soap. Brushing away the crusts of blood under the fingernails. Peeling away skin of red, vermilion, like the plastic paints you used to use to doodle with when you were six. Painted blood, or bloody paint. One of those.  
  
Washing away the scent, the iron filled perfume, his life, his beauty, the liquid that you used to taste on your tongue. You have to stop yourself from lifting the soap scummy hands to your mouth to lap away the last dried remains of red. You'd get the soap too. Little flecks of it fall into the drain, spiraling down with the soapy water.  
  
The blood is gone now, still on your sleeve, but no longer on your hands.  
  
You're still washing, the bar of soap in your hands gain, rubbing, pulling, scratching with your nails. You can see the red marks becoming brighter and brighter under the steaming water. Keep washing, keep scratching, keep rubbing. Make them clean again. Make everything beautiful again.  
  
You can't help thinking, maybe if you wash enough, he'll come back. Maybe.  
  
But when your scratches are already blood dark under the pale fine white sheen of your skin, you realize it won't help. You turn off the faucet, aching red hands shaky against the pale metal. You put back the bar of green soap, the soap bubbles still on it in a thin off-white coat.  
  
And you put your head in the sink, pink scrubbed hands on your face, and cry.  
  
A/N: Hah! I got done with the horrible ordeal! I had such qualms about writing this, hope you enjoy it. Leave a review, please? 


End file.
